Innik dê
by ncis-lady
Summary: "Dís feels like it's been forever since Balin knocked on her door, forever since her life as she knew it was broken beyond repair." In a world where everything seems to fade it's the pain that remains until the end. Sequel to "Nightmares", contains Spoilers for 3rd movie!
1. The return of the rune stone

Hey everyone! So after a lot of thinking, discussions with Maigleggal and Audrey Spirit, and listening to a lot of sad music lately I finally decided to write a sequel to "When all these nightmares become real". If you haven't read that one - it's about how Balin returns to Ered Luin after the Battle of Five Armies and tells Dís of the deaths of her sons and her brother. This story picks up where the previous one left off, and it'll most probably be a two-shot.

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**Innik dê**

**The return of the rune stone**

Time is a curious thing. Sometimes it passes slowly, usually when you wish for it to hurry up. And at other times it goes by too fast when you desperately beg it to slow down and give you time to breathe.

Dís feels like it's been forever since Balin knocked on her door, forever since her life as she knew it was broken beyond repair. Then again she thinks that everything is happening too fast for her to handle, that she'd just like to stop time and stay in this still state until she can breathe easy again.

She wonders if she'll ever feel alive again and breathe without hurting.

"Dís?"

She hasn't even noticed that Balin has stopped speaking, and she wonders how long he's been watching her with his kind, grief-stricken eyes. She looks up and their eyes meet for a moment before he looks away. He seems insecure, and among everything else this is probably what scares Dís the most. Balin is never insecure. He always knows what to do, what to say, he always finds the right words for everyone, whether it is a little dwarfling asking about the wonders of the world or Thorin needing to discuss political decision.

_Oh, Thorin._

She can feel another sob emerging in her chest, and she wonders why she hasn't run out of tears by now. Surely one cannot cry forever, yet she feels like she'll never stop completely. In a world where everything seems to fade it's the pain that remains until the end.

But her eyes remain dry this time, and she looks at the white-bearded dwarf who's avoiding her gaze. He looks much older than the last time she's seen him, his friendly face worn out and haggard, his formerly impressive beard singed. It's only then that she realised how long he must have been on the road, and guiltily she lays a hand onto his arm, which he acknowledges with a surprised raising of his eyebrows.

"Balin, my dear friend, when is the last time you've eaten?" she asks with a voice that sounds so unlike hers, raspy and quiet, that it might as well be a stranger speaking.

"I don't know, really," says Balin, "I haven't felt all that hungry lately, to be honest. And Glóin isn't exactly the best cook, either," he adds with a soft smile.

So Glóin has come home with him. It makes sense, after all. He had left his wife and son behind, and of course he'd seize the opportunity to meet Lea and Gimli again. Dís knows that both have been worried sick once the news about the battle reached Ered Luin, and she remembers spending an evening with the kind dwarf woman, patting her back and telling her that everything would be alright in the end. That her little Gimli would not suffer the same loss as Fíli and Kíli, and that soon they'd find a new home where they belong.

She bites her lip hard as it begins to tremble. Hastily she gets up from her chair, almost automatically moving towards the old cupboard, blindly grabbing a plate and a knife. She fetches a loaf of bread and starts cutting two thick slices, all the time feeling Balin's eyes on her, and her fingers stop trembling as routine takes over for a while. She puts ham on each slice and places the table in front of Balin, and for a few minutes she just watches him eat as her mind drifts away.

_She's sitting at the table, a tiny black-haired baby on her arm, while a little golden-haired boy watches the door expectantly, crying out in delight as he hears the familiar creaking._

"_Dad!" he yells and there's no stopping him as he flings himself into his father's arms, and Lîam lifts him up and whirls him around until Fíli's little feet collide with Thorin's head when her brother follows her husband into the house._

_They sit down at the table, little Kíli is sleeping in her arms, and Fíli sits on his father's lap and listens with wide eyes as the older dwarves tell of the hunt they've just come from, and Dís wishes she could just stop time and stay in that moment forever._

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, urging the memories to leave her alone, for she fears that she might break down and never get up if she stays in the past just a moment too long. She's sick of crying, sick of hurting, and she needs to be strong and hold her chin up and not allow the feelings to crush her. She will not be weak, she's a Durin, a daughter of kings, and she won't break that easily.

"Thank you, Dís," says Balin, pulling her from her dream-like state as he pushes the empty plate away. "Dís, I…"

He hesitates for a moment and runs his hand through his hair. He looks uncomfortable, but Dís thinks that there's possibly nothing he could say to make her feel worse.

"What is it?" she inquires softly, and Balin sighs quietly.

"Dís, I hate to bring this up now, but… I need you to pack a few things and come with me."

"Come with you? Where?" she asks bewildered, confusion clouding her brain for a moment, but before Balin can answer it hits her.

_Erebor._

"We need to have a proper funeral," she hears Balin speak, and the word echoes in her ears, getting bigger and louder until she just wants to cover her ears and not hear anything at all. Funeral. It's a word for old dwarves, and for the sick, and for warriors. Not for her boys, her babies. It seems like yesterday that they learned to walk, to ride a pony, to fight with wooden swords and went to seek adventures in the woods. But she mustn't think of that, she must focus on what needs to be done.

"When would you leave?" she asks, her voice as emotionless as it could ever be.

"Tomorrow. I know it's a rush, and I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't feel it's necessary. But it's been a while, and they need to be laid to rest."

There is a sadness in his voice as he speaks, and he almost looks as if he is about to pull her into an embrace, but before he can do anything Dís only nods automatically.

"Of course."

"Dís, if there's anything I can do to help –"

"I'm fine, Balin!"

The words have come out harsher than intended, and she can see how his face falls as he gets up from his chair. He is hurt because of her, and she wants to apologise but can't find the words.

Balin goes towards the door, still limping ever so slightly, and she understands how hard the journey home must have been for him. He's been at war, he's been wounded, he's lost friends, and here she is, hurting him even more.

Suddenly her old friend stops, for a moment just standing in front of the door as if he's only just remembered something. He turns around and comes back to her, and he puts his hand into the pocket of his old cloak. Mesmerised, Dís watches him as he pulls his hand back out and puts it into hers, and she gasps when she feels something cold pressing against her palm.

"I found this," she hears Balin say quietly, "in the lad's hand. I think you ought to have it."

Slowly she opens her hand, and there it is. The black stone stands out against her white hand, it's shiny and spotless, not what you'd expect from a token that's been carried through half of Middle-Earth and into battle, and she realises that Balin must have cleaned it before giving it to her. The runes are clearly visible, and she traces them with the fingers of her other hand.

Innik dê.

She stares at the engraved runes, and she remembers the day when she said goodbye to her sons, holding on to their promises like a warrior to his sword. She hears Kíli's voice as clearly as if he was standing right next to her, his promise given in his own carefree, nonchalant way, chuckling quietly at her worrying. She hears Fíli, serious and grown-up all of a sudden, as he reassures her that they'll be alright. She can feel her eldest pulling her close and whispering in her ear, reminding her of the promise he's made a long time ago.

_I promise that as long as I live, I will always bring him home._

But now these promises are but dust in the wind, lost on the fields of battle at the side of the mountain home that her boys will never know. They are gone, her boys, gone like the promises and hopes that she's been holding on to.

"Innik dê," she whispers, and when the tears start to fall and her chest bursts with sobs she is faintly aware of Balin's arms around her as she buries her face in his neck and allows herself to cry once more.

Some say that time will heal all wounds. But in her heart Dís knows that these wounds, though they may fade over time, will never stop hurting. All she can do is learn to live with the pain.

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_Carry on, don't mind me_

_All I gave was everything_

(Rise Against, "Survivor's guilt")

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**A/N 1: "Innik dê" is what the runes on Kíli's stone say, and they mean "Return to me". **

**A/N 2: Fíli's promise, which Dís remembers here, was said by him in one of my other stories, "A not so average brithday".**

**A/N 3: Don't worry, Dwalin will make his appearance in thenext part! ;)**

**Reviews, anyone?**


	2. The last journey of the rune stone

Okay, so probably not a two-shot. Somehow this chapter turned out quite different that expected. I hope you like it.

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**The last journey of the rune stone**

They start early in the morning. It is still dark outside as Dís mounts her pony, Thistle, and follows the small group towards the long lost home that has risen again and devoured everything Dís had in the process. She is silent as they ride, while on the inside she is screaming for it is not a home she is going to. It's the place that stands for everything she's lost.

Balin is leading the group, and behind him there are Glóin and Lea riding side by side, with Gimli following them, his eyes never quite leaving his father. A couple of other dwarves are part of the group as well, dwarves whom Dís has known all her life and who've offered their condolences and told her how sorry they are and that they'd be there should she need something. But the only thing she needs they cannot give, and thus Dís rides in silence and tries to shut out their whispering voices.

They've left Ered Luin before dawn, and as they ride through the forest the sun slowly makes its way above the horizon, the rays of light finding their paths through the trees and leaves, bathing the woods in a golden, mysterious light. It's autumn, with winter waiting just around the corner, and yet it is unusually warm. On a normal day Dís would have enjoyed the ride and gazed in wonder at the millions of colours around her, would have breathed in the fresh forest air and gotten lost in the beauty of nature. But today she sees no colours but grey, and every breath hurts.

All the time she feels the small stone heavily in her pocket, it feels cold and hot at the same time despite the layers of cloth between its surface and her skin. Sometimes she feels for it, and it makes her wonder if Kíli ever even thought about it until the battle, and then she bites her lip and forbids herself to think further. But every once in a while her thoughts turn back to the stone and to the day she put it into her youngest son's hand, and all she can think is that Fíli must still have his. She ought to ask Balin, but somehow she knows that the dwarves would have found it when taking off his armour to replace it with clean and festive clothes according to dwarvish customs, and if they'd found it Balin would have told her, and then she thinks of her eldest lying dead in the mud of the battle field and she feels sick.

Eventually they stop at an inn for the night, and when she lies in bed and stares into the dark she hopes that no one will notice her crying. Sometime in the early hours of the morning she drifts into a restless sleep, with pictures of tiny dwarflings with unrecognisable faces, hideous creatures on gigantic wolves, a town built on water and a huge dragon smiling at her dissolving into a blur of grey in her dream.

She knows that Balin can see through her facade when she tells him she's slept alright, but her friend doesn't comment on how her tired and blood-shot eyes betray her words. They ride on, for hours or days Dís doesn't know, and the sound of hooves has an almost calming effect on her, making her wish she could travel on like this forever. She could just pretend she's on her way to the Iron Hills, visiting relatives like she used to do when she was younger. She used to love those long rides, Lîam at her side, the sturdy pony carrying her across open fields and dark forests, the winds of freedom blowing into her face during a fast gallop which would leave her breathless at the end of the road.

But now it feels nothing like this.

One morning Lea slows her pony until she's next to Dís.

"I don't think I've ever been on such a long ride before," she says, if to herself or to Dís the dwarf woman doesn't know. It's probably just Lea's way to start a conversation when actually she doesn't know what to say at all. Glóin's wife chats away, and Dís suddenly appreciates it. She listens and nods and even answers from time to time, not noticing how time passes until Balin stops the company. Dís looks up as her pony halts, and all of a sudden she can't breathe.

She knows this silhouette. She knows these lands, she's seen them in her dreams, the whole scenery is so familiar that it makes her choke.

The Lonely Mountain. The Kingdom of the Dwarves. Erebor.

She hears Lea gasp beside her, and she sees her turn towards Gimli, smiling at her son.

"Welcome home, my dear."

But Dís also sees what lies between them and the mountain. The wide plain field in front of her stands like an ocean before the harbour, and all her senses tell her not to cross it. It's vast and black, smelling of burnt flesh and rotting bodies, a few crows circle above piles of unrecognisable forms, and through it all the silence is unbearable. The remains of a battle field, the reminder of her return.

One of the other dwarves is the first to urge his pony go on, and Thistle follows her companions. Dís focuses on the pony's ears, if only she can shut out her surroundings she will be fine. Thistle's ears are slightly curved, and the top is black fading into grey to match the rest of the pony's fur. The ears move with the same rhythm as Thistle's hooves.

"Dís?"

She flinches at the voice. She hasn't noticed Balin riding at her side, and she doesn't look at him. Just concentrate on the ears. Don't let your gaze go astray.

"Don't say, 'Welcome home'," she whispers, surprised by the bitterness in her own voice. "Don't –"

"I was about to ask how you're holding up," Balin replies softly.

"I don't know," she replies. An honest answer, when it would have been so easy to lie and say that she's alright. But this is Balin beside her, her friend. She cannot lie to him. And in that moment she makes the mistake to look at him, and her gaze falls upon her surroundings.

She gasps when she realises that she's in the middle of the battle field, reality strikes so hard that it takes her breath away.

"This is where they died," she speaks tonelessly. "Balin, this is where my sons died."

She can feel a tear trickle down her cheek, and she knows that more will follow, but for once she doesn't care. She stares at the muddy plains laid out before her, she can smell the odour of death in the air, and she is grateful for Thistle's good nature because she can barely hold on to the reins, let alone steer her loyal pony.

"Balin! Brother!" A cry disrupts the silence, and Thistle perches her ears as Dís and Balin turn their heads simultaneously. The ghost of a smile becomes visible on the white-bearded dwarf's face as the figure of a rather tall dwarf approaches from the distance.

"Dwalin," he mumbles, dismounts his pony and steps forward to pull his brother into a tight embrace.

"You've been gone too long, brother."

Dís watches the brothers as they exchange a few words. She gets a glimpse of a white bandage underneath the bald warrior's tunic, and another one covering half of his tattooed head. In that moment he notices her and his expression changes from relief to compassion. Without thinking she gets off her pony as well. Dwalin lets go of Balin and slowly walks towards her, stopping closely before her but seems to freeze where he stands. Dís wonders if she should hug him, but somehow Dwalin has never been the one for publicly showing emotions and she doesn't know whether or not he expects her to do any of that sort.

Dwalin's gaze lingers on her for what seems like minutes, but his eyes never meet hers. She takes in his appearance, the faint scar at the side of his head, the way his right hand is shivering ever so slightly only a hair's breadth away from his small dagger tucked into his belt, and the grief reflected from his eyes. And all of a sudden she understands. This is Dwalin, Thorin's best friend, his brother in arms. The one who was always at his side in every battle; the one who first volunteered to join him on his quest for Erebor; the one who spent hours with Fíli and Kíli to show them the arts of fighting and who once, after one mug of ale too many, swore by his beard to protect the heirs of Durin until Death come take him.

And now he is standing in front of her, and he is scared.

Without thinking Dís steps forward and puts her hands onto his strong forearms.

"Dwalin. My dear, dear friend," she mutters, and it is only then that he looks her in the eye.

"I am so sorry, Dís," he whispers in a cracked voice that is so unlike his usual grumpy tone that she can't help but pull him close. "I am so, _so_ sorry, love," he repeats, "I should have –"

"Don't," she interrupts him quietly. She knows what he wants to say, but she doesn't want to hear it. She fears that she might actually agree with what he says although she doesn't mean it. It's just that she needs to blame someone and wouldn't it be simply convenient to blame someone who blames himself anyway?

"If there's anything I can do, Dís, I'll do it."

"Show me where it happened."

She doesn't know where this wish suddenly comes from, but even with Dwalin holding her tight she can feel the weight of the small stone in her pocket. It has a kind of energy of its own, and she feels like she's stopped here, at this part of the battle field, for a reason.

"Dís, are you sure?" Balin asks somewhere behind her back, worry evident in his kind voice.

"Yes, I am. It's not far from here, is it?"

She's glad that neither Balin nor Dwalin ask how she knows this. Instead Balin only nods, and Dwalin takes her by the hand and looks at his brother.

"I'll take her there."

"Don't you think I should –"

"No. Go and lead the others, and rest, brother. Please."

The seasoned warrior offers one of his rare smiles, and Balin acknowledges it by putting a hand onto his shoulder.

"Don't stay too long."

With that he mounts his pony again and rides towards the mountain, the rest of the dwarves following him, and Dwalin squeezes Dís' hand courtly.

"You can still change your mind, you know that."

"I won't. Dwalin, please, I need to see where... please."

She doesn't know what to say, she doesn't understand herself, but Dwalin doesn't seem to mind. He leads her onto the field, and soon her boots become black with mud and she forbids herself to wonder whether it is only mud and nothing else. She takes strangled breaths as she looks around. It's not only the stench that lingers above the field. It's the sheer size of the open plain that takes her breath away. It's vast and empty and quiet, and yet she can see before her inner eye thousands of warriors, swords and axes and arrows taking lives by the hundreds, she can hear the noises of battle, the screams and cries, the begging for mercy and death, and somewhere in the midst of it all are the three dwarves who mean the world to her and who have left her in a world so cold and empty that she feels like she might as well have joined them.

"Here it is."

Dwalin's voice pulls her out of her daytime nightmare and catapults her back into reality. He doesn't say anything else, but has his gaze fixed on the ground. Slowly Dís kneels down and touches the ground with her fingertips. It doesn't look any different from the rest of the battle ground, and it confuses her. Shouldn't it look different, shouldn't it stand out from the rest of the field? It's only one spot in the midst of a wide, ordinary field, but somehow Dís knows that Dwalin has led her to the right place.

_It was me who found them._

Balin's words echo in her ears, though only know she understands that the dwarf wasn't alone that day. It's an almost comforting thought.

_They had each other. They weren't alone._

The earth is cold and wet under her fingers. Gently she lays the small, black stone into the hole and stares at it for a while. The runes stand out clearer than before, as if they could feel the presence of the second stone nearby. It may be ridiculous, but Dwalin doesn't comment on her doing, and she doesn't care anyway. She covers the stone and presses her hands against the ground.

"Sleep, my boys," she whispers, her voice inaudible as she presses her forehead onto the earth. "Men lananubukhs mênu."

And she wishes desperately for an answer, to just hear their voices once again, but she hears nothing but silence as her tears drop and mingle with the earthy ground beneath her hands.

_She got down on hands and knees, one ear against the ground_

_Holding her breath to hear something_

_Anything at all_

(Rise Against, "The dirt whispered")

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**A/N 1:** **Lines in italic are from the story "When all these nightmares become real".**

**A/N 2: The part about how everything is suddenly grey was inspired by the wonderful, heart-breaking song "If I die young": Life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no, ain't even grey but she buries her baby... (There's a Kíli and Fíli video on YT with this song, and also a beautiful multifandom vid which I watch approximately once a week ;))**

**A/N 3: Men lananubukhs mênu. = I love you. *sobs***

**What do you think? Too cheesy? Too sad? Not sad enough? Reviews make my day!**


	3. The legacy of the rune stone

**T**hree chapters, one for each of the line of Durin who died in the Battle of Five Armies. Kind of fits, I think.

This is the last chapter, obviously, and please read the A/N at the end of it.

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**The legacy of the rune stone**

Dís doesn't know how long she remains kneeling on the ground. It can be a decade, with the sun rising and setting a million times above her head; it can be a mere second, insignificant to the outer world. Eventually she gets to her feet and is almost surprised to find Dwalin still waiting for her. He doesn't speak, but simply takes her hand and leads her away from the field. She is grateful for his silence. She doesn't know what to say, and she doesn't know what she'd like to hear. So they just walk side by side, and she keeps her eyes set onto the mountain and never looks back at the battle field.

Eventually they reach the mountain, and for a moment Dís can only stare at the magnificent beauty of the place. The lost kingdom of the dwarves, the lost homestead beneath the mountain, is right before her eyes. She is home, after all those exiled years, and she has dreamed of this day for so long, and yet her return is nothing like she ever imagined.

So many dreams have been broken, so many sacrifices have been made, and Dís asks herself if it was ever worth the price.

"Dís?"

She flinches as she hears Balin's voice, and realises that she cannot linger before the mountain forever, no matter how much she'd like to. Balin puts his hand onto her arm and leads her inside. She has always wondered what she'd feel when she finally enters the halls of her fathers, but nothing could have prepared her for the emotions that make her heart ache in a way she's never hurt before. This isn't the joyous, glorious return. These walls are built on the blood of all those she held dear, and if the stone walls would suddenly collapse and bury her beneath them, Dís thinks that the weight on her chest wouldn't be heavier than it already is.

She is faintly aware of several dwarves talking to her, she can feel someone shake her hand, but she doesn't stop for any of them as Balin leads her further into the mountain.

"Balin, where are we going?" she asks just when the white-bearded dwarf stops in front of a huge door.

"I figured you'd like to say goodbye in private, before the ceremony."

_Goodbye._

They are standing in front of the crypt, and suddenly Dís understands what she'll have to face on the other side of the door, and it takes her breath away. They are waiting for her behind these closed doors, and yet she feels like she cannot move.

"Just take your time," says Balin softly. "I'll make sure no one disturbs you." He lays his hand onto her shoulder and squeezes it shortly, and she knows that he trusts her to do the right thing. He _expects_ her to do the right thing, because she is strong, and brave, a daughter of kings.

And then Balin is gone, and the door is looming before her. Slowly she puts her hand onto the handle, and it feels cool underneath her palm. She inhales deeply, and pushes the door open.

The crypt is large, and illuminated by many candles which give a warm light that is reflected from the stone walls. Decorations are scarce, but nonetheless beautiful, with banners hanging from the ceiling and ancient weapons hung up on the walls. But when her eyes fall onto the three stone tombs in the middle of the hall, everything else becomes a blur. They will be closed soon, but now they are open. Slowly, one step at a time, Dís approaches the first one. She doesn't even have to look. She knows it's him before she sees his face.

"Oh, brother," she whispers, her quiet, choked voice seeming way too loud in the quiet crypt. He looks so different and yet the same as the last time she's seen him. His incredibly blue eyes are closed today, and he looks more peaceful than she's seen him in a century. He is dressed in fine armour, and he looks so much like the king she'd always thought he'd be that she can barely breathe. Her chest tightens when she sees the beautiful sword in his right hand, and she reaches out to touch his fingers. They are cold, not like Thorin's, and she withdraws her hand quickly. She wants to say something, anything, but can't find any words to say in this hall, and she knows that, as much as this hurt her and made her feel like she's buried alive, this has been the easy part.

She doesn't know how she can possibly face the two coffins at the other side of the crypt. After one last glace at her brother she wipes her eyes and slowly walks towards where she knows she'll find her worst nightmares become real.

They are so close to each other that she can barely fit in between. Close, like they have always been. Dís looks from the left to the right, and for a moment everything becomes a blur before her eyes. It's too unreal, it cannot be, it can't be them.

But she knows their faces better than anyone, and she can feel the emptiness wash over her as she stares at her sons.

Fíli's face is pale, his blue eyes closed. Someone must have braided his hair and beard, and she gently strokes his hair like she used to do when he was young and needed his mother's comfort. She used to tell him that everything would be alright in the end, and put little Kíli into his arms, and he'd smile through the tears and believe her because that's what little boys do. When their parents tell them that all is not as bad as it seems, they believe it, and she promised him that she'd always make things alright and now it's the one promise she couldn't keep.

She can feel hot tears run down her face, and her heart is aching from repressed sobs.

"I am so sorry, my love," she murmurs, for a while only staring at her eldest. He looks so much like Lîam, and she remembers the day of his birth when she could only gaze at him in wonder asking herself how two ordinary dwarves like her and Lîam could have created a miracle like this. "Tell your daddy I miss him," she whispers.

She can't bring herself to look at her youngest. She knows that it will break her, so she stares at the walls around her for what feels like eternity, taking in the decorations and the lights of the candles and the all encompassing silence.

"You know I didn't want you to leave," she hears herself say, and she hesitates for a moment, because it's ridiculous to talk to someone who can't hear you, but then again no one will notice and she's beyond caring anyway. "I told Thorin that you were too young, and he almost gave in. But you wouldn't let Fíli leave you, and I knew I'd have to set up a guard day and night if I wanted to make sure you stayed, and deep down I knew that there was no chance of holding you back. That's why I made you promise to return, even though I had already learned the hard way that it's usually not ours to decide whether we come back or not." She chokes, glancing sideways, catching a glimpse of black hair and quickly looks at the wall again. "So you left, and you were so happy that day that I told myself I'd done the right thing. And now I ask myself if that is true. Have I done the right thing? Should I have made you stay?"

The question lingers in the room, it becomes bigger as if it was nourished by her tears, and only now does she look at him. She can't breathe, she can't speak, all she can do is stare at the face of her baby, at his lips curled to an almost invisible smile, at his unruly black hair, at the bow and arrows at his side, at the armour that looks too big for his slender figure. She leans over and presses her lips onto his forehead like she used to do when he'd fall asleep as a baby, and she almost expects Fíli to show up behind her and imitate her like he did as a child, and if there's any comfort in this darkest hour of her life it's her knowing that her boys will never be separated again in the halls of their fathers.

She is standing between them, her left hand on Fíli's, her right hand on Kíli's, and tears are running unchecked down her face and drop onto the stone floor.

"Sleep, my boys. Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal."

She doesn't know how long she stays like this. It feels like a lifetime, and yet not long enough. Eventually she lets go, and as she leaves the crypt she feels like a part of her is left behind with her loved ones behind the door.

She doesn't sleep that night, and the next day she is hardly aware of Balin leading her to the grand hall where the funeral ceremony will take place. She recognises many of the dwarven faces, but is surprised about the number of men and even elves who have come to Erebor. One man stands out from the rest, and she gasps when she realises that it's Gandalf, the wizard. She hasn't seen him in decades, the only memories she holds of him being those of her childhood. He walks over to her and takes her hand.

"My dear Dís," he says, and she can see a tear glistening in his eye, "I am so sorry for your loss. Please just know that, though I understand that my words mean nothing to you right now, their deaths weren't in vain. The history of Middle-Earth has been shaped anew yet again, and things have been set in motion that will change the lives of us all."

"You talk in riddles as always," she manages to say before she turns her head so that he won't see her cry. In that moment a soft melody fills the hall, and she holds her breath when she hears the familiar tune. She has heard it too often, and she wonders if it will ever stop hurting the way it does. She can hear Balin's deep voice behind her, and Dwalin's baritone as well as Bombur's unexpectedly pleasant voice. She is staring straight ahead, but she knows that the men and elves are quiet. They aren't familiar with dwarven customs, and she is grateful for their staying in the back of the hall.

When the singing stops, Dáin steps forward. She remembers Balin telling her that Daín will be king, but he doesn't look like a king now. He is dressed in plain clothes, and from where she is standing Dís can see his eyes shining suspiciously as he says a prayer for the sons of Durin. When he's finished he walks slowly back to the rest of the dwarves, and stops in front of Dís. He puts his hands onto her forearms, and for a moment it almost seems like he wants to pull her into a hug. But he only looks her in the eyes and talks quietly, so that no one else can hear him.

"I never asked for this role that I am now asked to play. I need you to believe me when I say that I always wanted Thorin to have this throne, not me. But I promise you that I will do my best to honour his memory."

He doesn't wait for her to answer, and she is glad about it because she doubts that she'd be able to speak. She follows him with her eyes until Gandalf's voice breaks the silence.

"Today we have assembled to mourn the loss of our friends, of our kin. I remember the day I first spoke to Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thror, about the lost kingdom beneath the mountain. He was eager to reclaim it, and I can still see the fire sparkle in his eyes when he talked about these halls. I knew then that if anyone could do it, it would be him. But at what cost Erebor would be given back to its rightful owners even I could not foresee. Many lives were lost in the battle against evil forces, and today we shall remember those who gave everything in that fight. We shall remember Thorin Oakenshield, and Fíli and Kíli, and the hundreds of dwarves and men and elves who died at the foot of this mountain. May your memories never fade!"

"May your memories never fade," a rumbling echo reflected from the stone walls.

"Never again shall the free peoples of Middle-Earth be driven against each other! Never again shall evil roam these lands and bring death upon us all. A time will come when we will be tested once more, and then we shall stand united again, and as friends."

He bows his head shortly, and when he looks up again his eyes seem to gaze at everyone at the same time.

"Our friends, whom we mourn in this dark hour, gave their lives in order to protect those they loved. Let us never forget their sacrifice, but honour them by carrying on their legacy."

Gandalf turns his head, and Dís gasps when she follows his gaze and her eyes fall onto the banners hanging from the wall. She takes in the emblems on every cloth, different on each banner and yet there's a peculiar similarity to them, as if certain parts of one pattern are duplicated in another. Straight lines and edges, so simple and yet making up the most beautiful symbols.

"Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield. And Kíli and Fíli! May Mahal guide you so you may find peace in the halls of your ancestors."

With that he leaves, and one by one they follow, the dwarves and also a few chosen elves and men and Dís among them, until they reach the crypt. Dís is allowed to enter, as are the members of Thorin's company and Dáin. Everyone else stays outside, for no one should see the dead in their vulnerable state, least of all foreign men and elves.

But this funeral is an exception, and Dís knows that she should take it as a good sign, a good omen that in the future the bonds between the races will be stronger. A man steps forward, and Dís hears the gasps of the dwarves around her when they see what is in his hands. It is the Arkenstone, shining even brighter than legends could ever tell, and he places it upon Thorin's chest.

"There let it lie until the Mountain falls," he says. "May it bring good fortune to all his folk that dwell here after!"

He retreats after a respectful nod of his head, and as if on cue six dwarves step forward. Dís knows the reason for this, and she clenches her fists and tries to control her breathing and fight down the tears.

Dwalin and Balin lift the heavy lid next to Thorin's tomb and, after a last bow, place it onto the sarcophagus. To their left and right Bofur and Bifur and Óin and Glóin are mimicking their action, and Dís realises that she will never see her sons again in this world.

It is a thought that takes her breath away, and idea so impossible that she would laugh at the ridiculousness of it if her heart didn't feel like it was ripped to shreds when the sound of stone scraping against stone drowns out all other noises.

Suddenly an elf strides forward, to the surprise of Dís and many other dwarves. He is tall and slender, his face beautiful and stern, and on his head is a many-spined crown decorated with golden leaves and autumn berries. He carries a beautiful sword which looks of elven-making, and he places it onto Thorin's tomb.

After one last glance at the fallen, the congregation leaves the stone tomb, and when the heavy door is closed by Dáin, Dís knows that she will never tread these grounds again. She follows the group, but doesn't stop at the great hall where everyone else gathers for a festive meal. Instead she walks on until she leaves the mountain. She breathes in the fresh air and scans the area laid out before her. Her homeland. The air is cool, winter is close, and soon this barren field before her will be covered with grass again. Children will be born, families will settle, and there will be peace.

What is her own happiness against all this?

But she forbids herself to have such bitter thoughts. It isn't right, and deep down she knows that her sons wouldn't want her to think like that. They have died, but their legacy lives on in the mountain behind her, and all she can do is honour it by adapting to her new life. It will be hard, and painful, but she knows that she can do it. She will face the pain and grief and come out stronger, like she is destined to by her bloodline.

After all, you can't spell 'enduring' without 'Durin'.

And the line of Durin will not be so easily broken.

_We're broken but still breathing  
We are wounded but we are healing  
We pick up right where we left off  
Breathe on the ashes that remain  
So that these coals may become fire  
To guide our way_

(Rise Against, „Hairline Fracture")

* * *

**A/N 1: **_**Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal.**_**= May we meet again with the grace of Mahal. (Formal goodbye, but I imagine it to be a traditional dwarven way of saying your goodbyes to the dead.)**

**A/N 2: The Dwarrowscholar has posted a very interesting text about dwarves and death, about their beliefs and customs. I hope I managed to stay close to those ideas. (For example, the dead aren't displayed publicly, because otherwise their enemies could see them and mock them.)**

**A/N 3: The man who lays the Arkenstone onto Thorin's chest is, of course, Bard; and his words are the original words as found in The Hobbit. **

**Reviews are very much appreciated! ;)**


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